


Break

by throwntotheair (eloquentelegance)



Series: Autistic Damian Wayne [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Autism, Autistic Damian Wayne, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquentelegance/pseuds/throwntotheair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian didn't mean to. Except that he did. It's just he wanted Drake to stop. That's all. He was trying to help. It's just Damian never knew how and always defaulted into anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Based off anon prompt "I have an idea for a fic you could write! Perhaps after a rather intense fight between Tim and Damian, and Alfred is helping Tim (Damian started it... then ended it by cracking one of Tim's ribs...) I dunno that could just be the beginning and you decide how to end it (I'm sorry, that's rather vague...)"

It starts with Tim. It starts with Tim working. He’s investigating a case in Gotham. He’s consulting for the League. He’s got a project on the side, something about WayneTech finances. He never leaves the Cave, practically welded to the computer. If he’s not fiddling with data, he’s scribbling notes or drafting up plans. It’s concerning.

“You’re a failure, Drake,” Damian says, walking in. “All this work and all you’ve managed to accomplish is handicap yourself. Is that supposed to help?”

“G’way, Damian,” Drake mumbles, continuing to type. “Busy.”

Damian snarls and marches up to him. He grabs a hold of his chair and spins it around, forcing Drake to face him.

“You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You haven’t _bathe_. I can smell you in my _room_.”

“Then find somewhere else to sleep!” Drake snaps, turning away. “I’ve got things to do!”

“Is this supposed to help?!” Damian grabs Drake’s shoulder and tugs him away from the computer. “You are more mentally deficient than I originally believed. A feat, really.”

Drake pulls away from him, baring his teeth. “Look! Would you just go away? I promise you can insult me however you like _later_. Right now, I’m close to a breakthrough.”

“No, you’re close to a break _down_. And the last thing we need is you to be more of a liability than you usually are.”

“See, you don’t get it. All you care about is yourself. You don’t know how to _help_ people.” Drake spins his chair around, facing the computer again.

Damian curls his hands to fists. He breathes in sharply, pressing his lips tight together. He thinks of Pennyworth, fussing over meals left cold. He thinks of Grayson, constantly glancing over, his mouth perpetually curved down. He thinks of Father, how the veins of his neck bulged, the way every line of his body stretched taut and tense.

“Fight me,” he tells Drake.

Drake stops typing, shooting him a perplexed look. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Drake briefly shuts his eyes before turning away. “I said I’m busy, Damian.”

Damian growls, a low, rough sound from deep within his chest. He shoves Drake out of the chair. “Fight me, Drake!”

Drake grunts in pain. “What the hell? What is your problem?”

“You think you’re doing everyone around you a favor. You think you’re being so useful, because if you’re useful, then people will want you. You’re pathetic, Drake.”

“Fuck you, demon spawn.” Drake flips up his middle finger, before rising to his feet.

Damian kicks him on the knee. Drake curls over with a shocked gasp.

“You want to be useful? Then fight me!”

Drake glares, heated and piercing. “Why don’t you go bother someone else? Huh? Why does it always have to be me?”

“BECAUSE IT’S ALWAYS ABOUT YOU!”

Three things happen in quick succession. The Cave entrance opens, allowing Father and Grayson in. Damian draws his leg back and aims another kick. Drake doesn’t dodge. Damian overestimated his capabilities, thinking he would dodge. But Drake has spent a near 100 hours without sleep. He couldn’t dodge if he tried. There’s the unmistakable sound of bone breaking.

Drake falls onto his back, clutching his side where Damian hit him. Father and Grayson, seeing the whole thing, rush over. Father is yelling. Grayson is yelling. Drake is groaning. Damian believes he broke a rib.

“Damian! Answer me!” Father shouts.”What is the meaning of this?!”

Grayson is kneeling by Drake, helping him sit up. He is very carefully not looking at Damian.

Damian feels numb. He feels nothing at all. There is only a hollow cold, creeping his fingers, spreading down his arms, enveloping his chest, and crawling up his throat. He swallows thickly.

“I don’t understand…” Damian says. He really doesn't understand. Drake makes a fool of himself, and somehow, he's still in the right.

“I thought you knew better by now!” Father shouts.

Damian looks to him - looks at him. Father becomes a list of details - an open mouth, loud volume, brows angled down. There is a redness to his skin, flaring brightly in his cheeks. Damian tries to see him as _Father_ , but it seems, he has forgotten what that word means.

Then all at once, everything comes rushing back. It’s less a hurricane than an earthquake, a sudden earthly force with no warning.

“Leave me alone!” He howls, feeling his very bones shake.

“Damian!” Father reaches for him, no doubt to restrain him.

Damian slaps his hand away. “Fuck! OFF!”

Father narrows his eyes, drawing up to his full height. He reaches out once more. Damian pulls out a batarang and slices at him. He cuts through the first layer of Father’s glove. Father reels back, appearing more shocked than hurt. If he had not been in uniform, Damian would have slashed opened his palm.

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!” Damian screams.

Spinning on his heel, he dashes up the stairs. It’s a coward’s move. Mother would be disappointed. Mother is not here. Damian doesn’t care. He doesn’t care! He’s done caring! This was a mistake. Father was a mistake. Robin was a mistake. Everything is all wrong, wrong, wrong. Damian doesn’t want to be _here_ anymore.

He locks himself in his room. Throwing himself on his bed, he wraps the sheets around him, cocooning himself. He stays like that for five minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty. He doesn’t know. He simply lies there, accompanied only by his short bursts of breath and tears. He feels a slight hitch in his chest, an odd sound popping out his mouth. He’s _hiccuping_ , and he hates everything all the more.

There’s a knock.

“GO! AWAY!”

“Damian, please.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF?! I SAID GO AWAY!”

“I just want to talk!”

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A WHORE! I SAID LEAVE!”

“DAMIAN!”

The knob rattles viciously and then, his father is there. He’s coming into his room. Damian kicks off his sheets. He pulls out another batarang, flinging it at Father. His aim is wild and his throw erratic. It misses him a good three feet. Damian then grabs the nearest thing - his bedside lamp - and raises it over his head.

“Take another step! TAKE ANOTHER FUCKING STEP!”

There’s a drawn out silence. Damian is frozen, with his arm held high, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and hiccuping. Bruce is stuck in the doorway, hands splayed out before him, stance low to the ground, his lips pursed. They stare at each other. Then, Bruce takes a step.

Damian lobs the lamp. Bruce ducks. It hits the wall and shatters. Damian breathes heavily, before falling to his knees. Neither say a word. Bruce creeps forward, slowly, carefully, quietly. He reaches out.

“Don’t touch me,” Damian spits out.

“Okay, okay. I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you.” Bruce takes a seat on the bed, a respectful distance away.

A hush falls over them both. The only sound comes from Damian, sniffling on occasion, and still hiccuping. They sit still, not looking at each other. Damian keeps his head bowed. Bruce stares at his hands.

“Everyone tells me to be honest,” Damian says, speaking first, “but whenever I’m honest, I come off as rude or mean or aggressive. Everyone tells me to be nice. I don’t _know_ the parameters of being nice. I don’t have the same understanding everyone apparently seems to have about what constitutes as delicacy or tactfulness. I don’t have that ability to see someone and understand that they want this from me or that from me.”

He pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “It was so much easier in the League, where at least I know where I stand… stood. I… I pleased Mother or I didn’t please Mother. And it was easy to please Mother. I showed her examples of strength, and power, and wit, and intelligence. All that, virtues for a good heir. Here, I am expected to be a good boy. And I don’t know what _good_ means. I don’t know what it means to be a boy either.”

Damian squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head. Then softly, barely audible, he says, “I don’t get it. There’s something not connecting.”

Father clears his throat. “I… oh, son… I…”

“It’s just I… I can’t… I always feel like I’m a step behind everyone else. I see them all laugh together or cry together, and it feels like I’m missing something important, something vital. And it sucks! I hate it.”

Father doesn’t reply immediately. Damian hears him shift, rearranging the sheets. After a prolonged pause, at last, he says, “I understand.”

Damian snaps his head up, eyes flying open. “You do?”

Father offers him a wry smile, before lowering his gaze. “I do… And I am sorry, son. I’m also not very good at picking up on what other people feel. Communicating can be quite difficult at times. Just ask Alfred.” He chuckles. “A lot of things remain incomprehensible to me.”

“But I thought… You’re Batman.”

“I am. I just… It took a lot of time. But I learned how to… how to be less clueless. I learned to cope. I learned to speak better, to convey information better. But it took time. When I was your age… Did I ever tell you how I got kicked out of Gotham Academy?”

“No.”

“There were a bunch of punks. They wouldn’t… They wouldn’t leave me alone, even though I told them to. I remember the uniform was itchy. I remember wishing I was home. I remember throwing a chair. I’m pretty sure I broke something, maybe somebody.” Father lifts his chin, looking at Damian. “I know better than to throw things now. But Dick and Alfred and Jason and Tim and Barbara and…”

“Father, I get it. You’re talking about everyone.”

“Yes. Well. Everyone knows I still can’t control myself sometimes. I still… overload myself sometimes. And everyone can tell you that I… absolutely suck at communicating or expressing myself. But I… I like to think I’ve gotten better.”

“Yes. Now people can call you an asshole instead of retarded.”

“Damian!”

“But it’s true. And I am mean and rude. I don’t set out with ill intent. I didn’t mean to hurt Drake… But he’s still hurt.” Damian looks away from his father. “Honestly, if Drake forgives me, I’ll hate him more.”

“… Really?”

“Then everyone will coo over him. They’ll think he’s Tim Drake the Saint for putting up with his retarded little brother.”

“Damian, you’re not…”

“Whenever he’s helpful, he gets to be a martyr. Like I’m supposed to be grateful he’s hurting himself to help me. Whenever I try to be helpful, I just look like a nuisance, and I’m causing more trouble.”

Damian feels his father study him. “… You were worried about him.”

“Tt. Don’t tell Drake.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll get this look on his face,” Damian explains, opening his eyes. He wrinkles his brow, sticking out his lower lip. “Like this. And he’ll go, ‘Oh, Damian.’”

Father snorts at the perfect mimicry of Tim’s voice.

Damian huffs. “I don’t need to be condescended to. I know I did wrong. He has every right to be angry at me. I expect him to stay angry at me, until…”

“Until?”

“Until I get things right, when I can do nice and good and gentle.”

“That seems… unreasonable.”

Damian gifts Father with a look. “Unreasonable has been my whole life, Father.”

“Oh, Damian…”

He groans, running a hand down his face. “See! You do it too!”

A startled laugh bursts out of Father. “I’m sorry?” Then falling silent, Father gets a look on his face, something soft and quiet. There's still an echo of a smile on his lips. He rests his hand - palm up - on the sheets, halfway between him and Damian. "I'm not going to lie. You did hurt Tim. You did lose control. But... It's going to be okay, you know that, don't you?"

"Do I?" Damian murmurs.

"Look, you're not - it's not - we're not... We want you to be here with us. You're a part of this family. That doesn't mean we get along very well, or we know how to be together. We're not there yet. But when - when we're trying to help you, it's not to be like we're saints or martyrs or however you think. It's because..." Bruce clears his throat. "... We want to keep you, here, with us. And it's not easy, given... well, everything. Because we're not -  _I'm_ not - okay either. But I want this family, and I want you, right where you are. So, that's what we mean when we try to help. It's not just us _tolerating you,_ or anything like that... Damian, we want you to be okay with us too."

"Because you want me."

"Yes. Does that - Did I make sense?"

Damian nods mutely before reaching out and taking Father's offered hand. He clutches it tight. "We're going to be okay?"

Father squeezes his hand back, running a thumb over his knuckles. "Yeah. Promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send me prompts over at my tumblr: http://cursedcomickids.tumblr.com/


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